


Quest's End

by Margo_Kim



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Celebratory Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Desolation of Smaug, Pre-Battle of Five Armies, Trope Bingo Round 3, hand kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smaug lies dead in the lake. As much as Thorin would like to celebrate, he's a little too preoccupied with what must come next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quest's End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for trope bingo's "celebratory kiss" square.

"Right," Bilbo said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "So that's it then. Quest completed."

Smaug’s corpse smoldered in the lake. A few key components of the town smoldered along with it. Bard had shot them the dirtiest look as he'd climbed the dead beast to stick a sword in its eyes for good measure, as though he still was harboring the grudge that somehow Thorin and his company were responsible for this mess or, as Bard had phrased it as he bellowed in Thorin’s face, “The near-destruction of Lake-town!” But _near_ was the important word here, and Lake-town would only benefit from Smaug’s death, only possible because of the actions of the company. And even if the town had been completely destroyed, Thorin would make the case (and had repeatedly until Bilbo elbowed him in the ribs and told him to just drop it already) that _Smaug_ would have been responsible for that, same as it was responsible for a great many tragedies of the past—unless, of course, Bard wanted to admit that his ancestor should have stopped the worm the first time around.

But Thorin was not bitter. He could let the offense go. He was, after all, a king. The role required no small degree of magnanimity.

He was a king. He was the king. He was king under the mountain, standing outside his mountain, looking at the corpse of his most bitter enemy, and though no crown yet encircled his head, he could feel the weight of it already, a long-harbored memory from childhood when his grandfather pulled Thorin up into his lap and rested the mark of rule upon him and told him with a sigh, "Someday, you'll wear this and realize you know no more than you did when you more plainly adorned. And now Thorin was king, at last a king of more than just a fond and bitter memory. He was king of Erebor. He'd been protesting that he was for so long that to wear the mantle truly left him staggered, numbed, exhausted. Or, perhaps more accurately, that was the near-death incineration by dragon fire speaking.

Thorin's legs, on the verge of failing him, buckled more or less intentionally as he sat on stairs of the Master's home. Bilbo settled down with a sigh next to him. Bard now appeared to just be smacking the corpse for the vindictive joy of it. When Thorin's limbs felt a little more functional, he'd have to join him in that. And then Thorin would need to help with the removal of the body. They couldn't float the beast out to sea like a fallen warrior, but they couldn't let it lie here and rot either. And when that deed was done, however it was to be done, there was still the chaos of Erebor to sort out. Smaug had drowned some halls in treasure and left others scorched and barren. Some areas would have to be abandoned altogether, rendered irreparably unstable by the damages. Others could be saved if you cleared all the bodies of your long-dead kinfolk first. And then there was the matter of the King's Hall. It was still currently a pool of molten gold, and then it ceased to be molten, the hardened result would settle immovable for ages, jamming doors and making messes out of any stairs it poured down and generally obstructing without glorifying, the highest offense in dwarvish design. And, of course, the Arkenstone. Thorin could not forget the Arkenstone, not even if he desired to.

"Quest completed,” Thorin said wearily. “Done at last.”

Bilbo's leg was close but not quite touching Thorin's, a strange separation from his bedfellow these last few weeks. But then again, it was only a strange separation by dwarf standards. Hobbits, as always, did things differently so Bilbo rarely touched him outside the cover of night. "That may be how you dwarves do it," Bilbo had said when Thorin'd pressed the matter on the road to Mirkwood. "With all your, your hair braiding and bead exchanging and, and, and _hand holding_." Bilbo managed to pronounce that last one like the mere act of saying it aloud shrouded him in a morally reprehensible haze, which was rich coming from a hobbit who apparently no qualms about using his hands for far more sordid things and whose only objection to sex was when it didn't last long enough. "But us hobbits, striding through the streets hand in hand with our..." He'd trailed off into a harrumph while Thorin had waited with keen interest to hear what that noun was going to be.

Bilbo’s voice shook him from his reverie. "It'll be dark soon," Bilbo said. "We ought to find a bed."

"In Lake-town?" Thorin asked.

"That is where we are, yes."

Thorin said nothing for a moment. "I'd wished to spend this night in Erebor, in the halls of my people."

Bilbo's responding smile was as gentle as it was tired. "The halls of your people lie half a day's ride away, and I don't think you've the strength to make it down the street. Nor, I should add, do I think that any of your fine, esteemed company have the strength to get there either. Not without a full night's rest and a full day's feast. Wait a day and your nephews will even have recovered enough to see his homeland himself."

"True," Thorin said quietly, as if he were speaking to himself. "But I should be there all the same."

As they watched Bard call to his daughter to toss up another blade as the one he'd been using had finally snapped in half, Bilbo reached over and laid his hand on Thorin's with only the slightest quiver of hesitation. "You will be there," Bilbo said. “Save the needs of your feeblest friends, there’s nothing keeping you out anymore.”

Thorin looked down at Bilbo's raw and singed hand resting on Thorin's. "This is not decent," Thorin said, and Bilbo looked questioningly at him. "Two hands touching in public. There are children around."

Bilbo snorted. He did not move his hand. "If I've become indecent, I blame it on the failings of dwarves," Bilbo said as Thorin wove their fingers together. "I was very respectable before you barged in my house."

“As was I,” Thorin said. “After one night with you, I can no longer claim any kind of propriety.”

Bilbo’s eyes had a wicked glint. “So this whole quest’s been nothing but all of us becoming worse,” he said. “Good thing it’s over.”

No. No, Bilbo was wrong about that. Thorin could feel the weight of everything to come like a boulder settling on his shoulders by measures. A new thought would occur to him, a new task for the lift, and the boulder lowered a little more. The quest wasn't over. Thorin could see it now stretching further and further in front of him unto his dying day when he passed it onto Fili who would pass it onto his child who would pass it onto to his. If you lose it, you must reclaim it. If you have it, you must keep it. That was what it meant to rule.

 _That's all well and good_ , the voice in his head that sounded far too much like a hobbit said, _but you’ve done so much today that you can’t hardly think straight anymore. Best leave that business for tomorrow, I would think. The work will still be there when you wake._

Smaug was dead—Bard had thoroughly confirmed his kill. Erebor lay open to its people once more. Any problems that arose from that were no problems at all.

Bilbo wouldn’t approve of a kiss on the lips out here where everyone could see. Very well. Thorin raised Bilbo’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against the burned knuckles as gently as he could. The smell of smoke and fire filled his nose so Thorin kissed Bilbo’s hand again, blessing each finger with his lips and then the back of the hand and the palm and the wrist. “Now who’s improper?” Bilbo said lightly and lowly, the faintest blush in his cheeks and the faintest smile on his lips.

“Improper is letting victory pass without celebration,” Thorin replied. “Let us find a bed.” Bilbo’s hand tightening around his was response enough to make the boulder sit a little lighter yet, for tonight at least. 


End file.
